


i am not a fool entire (no, i know what's coming)

by a_static_world



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes has a therapist, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Smut, Nightmares, No Spoilers, Non-Graphic Smut, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson is a Gift, as he rightfully should, hydra fucked the white boy up real bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 19:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: “You’re staring again.”“Sorry.”Bucky drops his gaze fast, down and away from the man currently reading the news on their shitty motel bed. He stares, he’s well aware, because every time he does, Sam calls him on it. It’s not like hemindsSam calling him out, but it’s also not like he can help himself.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 429





	i am not a fool entire (no, i know what's coming)

**Author's Note:**

> tw for ptsd, nightmare scenarios, and mild paranoia!

“You’re staring again.”

“Sorry.”

Bucky drops his gaze fast, down and away from the man currently reading the news on their shitty motel bed. He stares, he’s well aware, because every time he does, Sam calls him on it. Even through comms, when Bucky’s perched on a rooftop 500 feet above his head.  _ Got your eyes on, Buck?  _ and Bucky will swear, tear his eyes away from the red-and-white dot and force them back to his scope. 

It’s not like he  _ minds  _ Sam calling him out, but it’s also not like he can help himself.

See, HYDRA are advanced. Most of Bucky’s training- the mental bits, at least- was done through computer-generated simulations.  Sims, they were called, and they were able to jack Bucky’s brain so that everyone he ever loved tried to kill him a thousand times over. Steve, his ma, his little sisters, hell, even the Commandos. Tried and tried again until Bucky was killing them before they got the chance to. Which was what they wanted, of course, and once his mind had been thoroughly blitzed, crushed, and wiped clean again, they turned to his body. Pumped him full of bastardized super-soldier serum until he gained his body’s weight in muscle.

Bucky still doesn’t know the full effects of whatever they filled him with. He knows he doesn’t have to blink, sleep, or eat as often, but that if he doesn’t do so regularly, he’ll crash eventually and be out of commission for a few days. His bones are stronger, muscle packs on easier and doesn’t atrophy as quickly. Aside from that, well. Until they decode the documents, he’s as much a medical mystery as Steve was well-documented. 

The sims are what he dreams of, though. At first he was terrified, shutting his eyes to the horrors and cowering, or attempting to reason with whoever they’d pulled from his memories. It took him time to learn the little tricks. HYDRA sims were good; they weren’t perfect. The trick lay in blinking. Every time you blink, the sims will change, just slightly. Something as subtle as the color of the walls, the location of your assailant. A few shades, a couple inches, never anything much, but there  _ will  _ be a change- or there would be; Bucky guesses their tech has significantly improved since 1945, if they even still use sims at all. 

Blink, find out if you’re in a sim, find your way out. A mantra Bucky found himself repeating again and again between wipes, when they’d pull him off the ice to commit atrocities he barely remembers.

Nine times out of ten, it wasn’t a sim, and he’d go back under with the smell of blood thick in his nose.

Now, of course, he’s safe- relatively, at least. He’s safe and he knows it and it doesn’t stop the creeping paranoia. The knowledge that he’s got it  _ too _ good, that something bad is just around the corner. The serum makes it so he doesn’t have to blink that often, and Bucky finds himself taking full advantage of it. Some small, irrational part of him worries that if he blinks, if he looks away for a split second, the color of Sam’s shirt will change from mustard to squash. That the bruise on his left thumbnail would migrate to the right, and suddenly Sam wouldn’t be Sam anymore. 

He could just  _ tell  _ Sam, sure. His therapist says it’s good to share, that he’s not a burden for telling people his plentiful triggers.  _ It’s time you learned some self-preservation, Sergeant _ , she’d said, eyes alight with kindness. And it’s not that Sam would mock him; God, no, never in a million years. They’ve got shared military experience, if nothing else, and with all Sam’s work at the VA, well. He’d take it dead serious, probably, but Bucky doesn’t want to- fucking, whatever. Mess up their tentative almost-relationship with his shit.

(He’s afraid that if he tells Sam, it’ll be some kind of homing beacon for HYDRA. That they’d find Sam and take him away from Bucky.)

So Bucky tries not to blink, tries to soak in as much of Sam as he’ll allow before the comments come flying. He doesn’t realize he’s been staring ( _ again _ , comes the unhelpful mental reminder) until Sam catches his eye, looking up from the screen. His eyes are red, exhaustion lining the earthy brown of his irises. Bucky could get lost in them, he really could. Steve’s eyes had been an ocean, limpid and clear and freezing cold. Nothing to lose yourself in, there. Sam’s eyes  _ shift _ , they’re always changing, from dark like fresh coffee grounds in the early morning shadows to sunlit and shot through with gold during the day. 

“You gotta problem with me or something?”

“No, I-” Bucky falters. He doesn’t...he can’t give Sam the explanation he wants. He could pass it off, or even just say something like  _ shit, trauma _ , and make a joke out of it and Sam wouldn’t push. But apparently his brain put out a total fucking gag order on it, so he just stumbles,  _ uh _ and  _ um _ -ing his way through some excuse before Sam finally takes pity, shaking his head and chuckling as he turns back to his laptop. 

“You should- sleep,” he bites out, the words foreign in his mouth. Their relationship isn’t really like that,  _ caring _ , but shit, Bucky’s too used to having to bully Steve’s stubborn ass to bed. It’s instinct at this point, plus Sam’s still fully human, which means he  _ needs _ sleep.

“I- what?”

“Sleep, man. Listen, I’ll take watch. You get your ass to bed and you get eight hours, okay? I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

Sam squints at him, apparently attempting to see if Bucky’s been replaced by some clone or other. When Bucky glares back, turning his “winter-soldier” gaze up a notch, Sam surrenders, throws his hands up and closes the laptop. Bucky goes back to staring at the book clenched in his hand, something thick and paperback he’d picked up for far too much at the last airport they were in. He’d “read” about half of it, though if you asked him what it was about, he’d be at a loss. A boy had fallen off a window ledge, at one point, and there were wolves? Anyway, it’s a good enough distraction from the sounds of Sam stripping for bed, the neat open-and-shut of motel drawers against a backdrop of shuffling feet and half-hummed melodies. 

Bucky doesn’t relax until Sam turns out the light, dropping the book and the pretense of reading all at once. He sinks into the stiff armchair, dropping his head against the back until his gaze fixes on the ceiling. Another bonus of the serum is that there’s no adjustment period from day-vision to night-vision, so Bucky gets a clear view of every stain and crack. He waits until Sam’s breathing evens out to look back at the bed, at the cocooned lump atop a mattress that looks about as old as he is. 

Bucky forces a breath into his lungs, memorizing every small detail of the scene. And then slowly, carefully, he-

Doesn’t blink. He can’t make himself, not yet, because  _ what if _ . God, next time he’s got a burner cell, he’s calling Diane. This is  _ stupid _ , he can’t keep staring and staring until blinking hurts. Some small, selfish part of him murmurs that he likes staring at Sam, likes knowing that he’s real and alive and that he’s choosing to stay with Bucky.  _ Jesus _ he must be more tired than he thought, if he can’t keep down thoughts like that. 

He’s definitely more tired than he thought, because at some point, Bucky falls asleep. Normally his dreams are murky, flashes of memories that don’t line up, faces he can’t put names to, that sort of thing. Not always nightmares, but always unsettling at the very least. Tonight, though, his dream is linear. He’s sitting on a plane with Sam, the two of them squashed into economy, and Sam’s arm is warm where it rests against Bucky’s. They’d squabbled over the window seat, to the amusement of the elderly French woman who had the aisle seat. Sam won out, and Bucky was left to charm the lady with the flawless French that HYDRA had pumped into his brain. He blinks, smiling at her, and her handbag changes. Maroon to burgundy, the matter of a few shades, but Bucky feels his blood freeze. 

He turns to face Sam, who is no longer asleep but terribly, horribly awake, a smile plastered on his face that has Bucky bracing for the first blow. It comes fast, awful and white-hot, and Bucky feels his lip split, hot blood seeping into his mouth. The blows continue to rain, peppering his jaw, his chest, his head, anywhere Sam’s fists can reach in the cramped economy seats. Eventually, a hand closes around his throat, broad and calloused in a way that Bucky knows as well as his own. 

“You should have told me,” Not-Sam hisses, and the edges of his vision go black, eyes focusing in on Sam’s until…

Until he’s waking up in a dark motel room, chest heaving, face intact.  _ Fuck _ . Sam’s blanket-cocoon shifts, and his voice verberates thick in the hot motel air.

“Y’good, Buck?”

“Yeah, fine.” Bucky grits out, trying to sound like he hasn’t just run a fucking marathon. He groans inwardly as Sam sits up, flicks on a lamp and rubs his eyes in the pale yellow light. 

“Hey, you should be sleeping-”

“Mm, not while you’re over here having nightmares in that ugly ass armchair, I’m not. Get over here.”

Bucky sighs. There’s no use arguing with Sam, and honestly, he’s too tired to try. A familiar guilt works its way up his throat, using his ribs like ladder-rungs as it twines and seats itself in his chest. He doesn’t  _ want _ to tell Sam, because he doesn’t want to burden Sam, because Sam doesn’t get to see him like this, and a million other petty little reasons. He forces himself to the edge of the bed, surprised when it doesn’t sag under his weight like motel beds tend to do. No, it’s firm, and the sensation grounds him a little. Bucky focuses on the feeling of his feet against the floor, the knit of the blanket under his right hand. 

“So?”

Bucky winces. 

“It’s..hard for me. To talk.”

Sam snorts, and though his back is to him, Bucky  _ knows _ he’s rolling his eyes. 

“Good thing I got time, Cryofreeze.”

There’s a rustling sound, and it takes Bucky a few seconds to realize that Sam is peeling the covers back, a clear  _ get in, idiot _ gesture. It’s a twin bed, there’s nowhere for Bucky to go, but he finds himself shucking his tac gear off anyway, stripping until he’s in boxers and his undershirt. They’re less grimy than he would’ve imagined, so he doesn’t feel too bad about sliding under the proffered blankets, though he tries his damnedest not to touch Sam.

“Can I- will it help if I touch you?”

Bucky’s answer punches itself out of his gut, breathless and quiet in the static hum of the room.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. Go ahead.”

Sam mutters something that sounds strangely like  _ thank fuck _ , but then he’s pulling Bucky into his arms, and Bucky feels his mind go blank. Nobody’s...nobody’s held him like this in like, seventy fucking years. Sam’s wrapped an arm around his middle, and the other comes up to card warm fingers through his hair. 

“Still ok?” Sam whispers, and Bucky nods, fighting down a shiver. This is...tactile therapy, is all. Sam’s never shown any interest in Bucky, not like that. And even if he did, even if there  _ were  _ a few incidents that cast doubt on that idea, well. If Bucky showed half the shit he felt on the inside, he’d be locked up in a psych ward last Tuesday. 

“There were. Things, that HYDRA did. To condition me.” The words come in fits and starts, but they’re coming, and for that Bucky is grateful.

“I won’t go into detail, cause I don’t want you havin’ all that on your conscience, but they put me through sims- simulations- to break me. At first.”

Sam exhales, warm and soft in Bucky’s hair, and it gives him enough reassurance to keep speaking. 

“I just. There were ways to know if you were in one; if you blinked, something would change, usually a color or someone’s position. Not much, but enough to notice.”

He’s here, he’s safe, he’s made it out.

“I’m scared, you know, that this… that all of this is just one of their tricks. Building me up to break me down, all that. So I uh, I stare. Cause if I blink-”

“If you blink and something changes, you’d snap your tether for real.”

Bucky chuckles, dry and humorless.   
“Yeah. Essentially.”

Sam’s quiet for a few minutes, but his hand never stops its steady path through his hair, so Bucky knows he’s not asleep. By the time he speaks again,  _ Bucky’s _ almost asleep, and he’s meant to be on watch, jesus-

“We’ll pick up a burner cell soon so you can call Diane, yeah? Is there anything I can do to make you feel...safer?”

God, Bucky loves him. His mind starts screaming  _ no, wait, redact that, take it back _ , but it’s too late, his mouth is moving.

“Yeah, that would be great. I... monotones. Straight black, white, grey, they were harder to manipulate, and they’d usually shift to a different color completely before I even had to blink.”

“It’s like you’re trying to crush my vibe on purpose, Barnes.” His tone is light and teasing, though, and he tugs on Bucky’s hair just a little, as if in emphasis.

“First of all, that’s not a saying, and you can’t trick me into thinking you’re cool. Second of all,”

Bucky flips himself up and around until he’s pinning Sam to the bed, straddling his lap without a second thought. Oh, no, there they are. Too many thoughts, and Bucky has to shake his head to remember what he was saying.

“Second of all,  _ I’m _ the one with generations of trauma here.  _ Literally _ .”

“Yeah, so call Diane about it.”

“Make me, Wilson.”

Sam laughs, a sharp sound Bucky’s never quite heard him make before, and if Bucky didn’t have seventy years of HYDRA training programmed into his bones, he would’ve flipped Bucky on his back like nothing. As it stands, Sam’s just doing a lot of wiggling and swearing, which is  _ also not helpful, jesusfuckingchrist- _

Thankfully, Sam winds down, glaring at Bucky. 

“That was me trying to make you, Cryofreeze.”

“Didn’t try hard enough, I guess,” Bucky shrugs, fully aware that he’s verging on dangerous territory. No, he’s not verging.  _ Verging  _ was stripping and cramming himself into a twin bed with the man he may or may not have a huge, inconvenient crush on. He’s well into the danger zone, now, especially if Sam decides to start wiggling again. Which he looks inclined to do, fixing Bucky with a gaze that he knows means he’s about to do something very stupid, or very calculated, or both.

It’s both, because Sam’s surging up to kiss Bucky square on the mouth. He’s moving just a little too fast for comfort, which means that in Bucky’s haste to reciprocate, he splits his lip. Sam draws back at the first taste of blood, running his tongue over his bottom lip and wincing.

“Shit, are you okay-”

Bucky doesn’t even let him finish his sentence, because right now he’s going to go all sorts of crazy if Sam doesn’t keep kissing him. Sam seems happy enough to oblige, threading his hands back through Bucky’s hair and scooching himself up so that he’s sitting, back pressed against the shit motel headboard. 

The bed is, unfortunately, far too small to do much more than heavy petting. Which it gets-  _ very _ heavy. And eventually sticky. Bucky doesn’t care much about that part, because his brain has been turned into very unhelpful jelly and he’s now fully collapsed against Sam’s chest, ear tuned into the hammering of the other man’s heart. 

“So, uh, you still need to call Diane?”

“Wilson, you did  _ not  _ just bring up my therapist after we-”

“It was an honest question!”

They bicker their way to the shower, over water temperature and who brought shampoo and  _ no, I thought it was your turn, damn it _ .

Bucky blinks as the spray of water hits his face.

Nothing changes, and Sam wipes the water from his eyes with a small smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY TFATWS DAY!!  
> the first episode,... chefs kiss. i love them, your honor!  
> in other news, i was able to get my first vaccine on tuesday!! super super grateful for that.  
> come find me on [tunglr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) for a symptom rundown and lots of loud screaming about the magnus archives, the witcher, and sambucky  
> i hope you all are doing well, vaccinated or otherwise. stay hydrated, wear your masks, and tell someone you love them today (even if it's yourself!)  
> xoxo, static


End file.
